The realisation came on like a sugar rush:Iwasn’t haunted by theTeddyVoicebecauseIcared what she thought.Iwas haunted becauseIagreed with her.Atleast, to an extent.Andas life moved on for the peopleIloved, it was becoming clearer and clearer thatIwasn’t moving towards anything in particular.Iwas, in fact, flitting.
So maybe it was time to make a glorious mess of things again and see what stuck.
For my birthday the year before,AmyandPhilhad gotten me a half-day mead-making seminar at a nearby honey farm.I’dbeen fresh off my failure so hadn’t booked it then, but nowImanaged to dig out the details and book in for later in the month.Itturned out it was for two people, but since neitherPhilnorAmywas free,Ilooped in one of my other favourite people:AmyandJack’smum,Patricia.Shehelped run the local rewilding trust, whichI’dvolunteered for a few times, and it turned out she knew the owner of the farm through her conservation work.Soshe offered to come along with me to see her friend and be my “hyper,” she said, thoughIwas pretty sure she meant “hype woman.”
The week before the course,Idid my homework:IwatchedYouTubevideos about honey fermentation, reread the notes on my phone from the original disaster, and even bought some of the mead they produced on the farm.Iwanted to be prepared.
On the morning of the workshop,Iwoke before my alarm, which was nothing short of a miracle.Patriciacollected me from my flat, and we drove through theWelshMarchestowardsAbergavenny.
The farm,GwenynenHollow, was so picturesque that it looked like a film set.Awoman in her early fifties, bushy, greying hair springing in every direction, bright teal overalls splattered with multicoloured paint, greeted us as we got out ofPatricia’scar, a golden spaniel circling at her feet.Jen, the woman’s name was, led us into a big modern warehouse.Iloved it in there instantly; it was chilly, but the air was heavy with the smell of yeast, herbs, and honey.Wefollowed her to a table with four other people sat around it. “Welcometo the sweet life!”Jensaid, then had us introduce ourselves.
The workshop started with a tour of the farm and the hives.Jenexplained the basics as we went– bee colonies, pollination, why honey tasted different depending on the nearby flora, and what it meant for a hive to “go queenless”.Shewas funny, too, making bad puns and sometimes,Ithought, deliberately exaggerating her vaguelyAmericanaccent for dramatic effect.
The weather was warm enough to actually open the hive, and whenJenhanded me a frame of honeycomb laden with bees,Iwas surprised at how alive it felt, the hum of hundreds if not thousands of tiny bodies vibrating together.Fora second,Iforgot about theTeddyVoice, or even my own.This, in my hands?Itfelt consequential.Itfelt considered and deliberate.Builtwith intention and hard work.Itwas intoxicating, andIhadn’t even had any mead yet.
Back in the studio, we started the actual mead-making.Itwas sticky work, and my batch was the first to go wrong, butIdidn’t care.Itwas the most funI’dhad since … well,Icouldn’t actually remember when.Aswe worked,Jenanswered questions about the farm’s business model– they sold bottles of mead and jars of honey on the website, and they were stocked in several local supermarkets.Nonational deals just yet, but they were working on it.Andover the summer they’d be attending some festivals and markets, too.Itall sounded so exciting to me, thoughIwas sure forJenit was more work than pleasure.
Lunch was a spread of local cheese, bread, and fruit– and honey, of course.Isat next toJen, who asked me whatIdid.
“I work in event planning at an animal rescue,”Isaid, “butIdon’t love it.Mostly,I’mjust trying to juggle everythingIneed to without fucking up too badly in front of the rich people who give us money.”Iwas surprised at how readilyI’doffered up this truth; evenPatricia, sitting onJen’sother side at the warehouse table, raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“You’d be surprised how much of all this is just that,”Jensaid, gesturing around her. “Tryingnot to fuck up, and trying to make something nice out of it when you do.Fewerrich people, though.”
After lunch,Jenwalked us through how to carry on with our batches when we got home, thoughIonly half listened.Despitethe intentionsI’dcome in with,Ididn’t actually want to make my own mead at home anymore.Itwould feel empty– pointless– after how fun and communal everything had felt today on the farm.ButIscribbled down a few notes anyway.
When the other guests left and it was justPatriciaandJenand me,Jenhanded me a bottle of mead, clinked it with her own, and ledPatriciaand me into an art studio attached to thefarmhouse.Watercolourpaintings and canvases lined the space, sometimes stacked half a dozen deep against the wall, all in various stages of completion.Wesat around a table in the middle, andJenandPatriciatalked about the future of the farm– how hard it was to maintain at her age, and howJenwas trying, along with the council, to turn it into a destination for tourists and locals, not just mead enthusiasts.Ilistened, andIwas surprised whenIfelt likeIhad something to contribute.
“You should do a festival,”Isaid, not really thinking it through, but the idea stirring something in me nonetheless. “Somethingthat brings the community together; builds relationships with other local businesses.Maybethrow in a honey tasting or two.Peopleare desperate for that kind of stuff.”
Jen’s face lit up. “That’snot a bad idea.”Shereached over to a half-finished sketch of a flower and flipped the paper over, jotting down some notes asIrambled.
We talked for an hour, maybe more.Bythe end, we had two discarded sketch papers full of half-baked ideas.Andactually, maybe they weren’t so half-baked; it seemedI’dlearned a thing or two from my experiences at the rescue.
On the drive home,Ireplayed the day in my head.I’ddone something relatively small and pointless and incredibly fun for myself, and something less pointless for someone else along the way.Thatfamiliar stab of panic was nowhere to be found.
WhenIgot home,Iwrote it all down in my new journal, then showered and went to bed happy, the smell of honey still lingering in my hair and on my skin.Andfor the first time in months, theTeddyVoicedidn’t haunt my dreams at all.Instead,Idreamt of wildflower fields and the soft, relentless hum of a thousand bees working together, making something sweet out of nothing.
* * *
The call cameon aWednesdaya couple of weeks later, just after lunch, whilstIwas in the middle of writing a list of “ThingsICouldDoWithMyLifeThatAren’tSad”.I’dmade it to number four– “start training to be onSurvivor(preferablyAustralian)”– before my phone buzzed with a numberIdidn’t recognise.Myinstinct was to let it go to voicemail, butIwas meant to be working from home on the next event for the rescue, soIpicked it up.
“Hello?”
“ChloeBarlow?”Thevoice was unmistakable: bright, vaguelyAmerican, and warm. “It’sJenMaxwellfromGwenynenHollow.”
“Hi!”Isaid, way too enthusiastically. “Howare you?Isthis about the … mead?”Ieyed my take-home batch, which hadn’t exploded yet, butIfigured it was only a matter of time.
She laughed heartily. “Ina way, yes.Doyou have a moment?”
I did.Icould think of nothing better to do in that moment than talk toJenMaxwellabout mead.
“I’ve been thinking about our talk,” she said, “andIwanted you to know– those ideas you had?Ithink they’re brilliant.Thecouncil loved them, too.They’vehelped us secure a grant we were applying for, actually, so we can put those plans into action.”
I sat up straighter. “Wow, that’s … that’s amazing!Congratulations!”
She went on, her voice speeding up as if she were nervous, which made me nervous, too. “Wewant to put on an event series, expand our presence, and improve our press and marketing.It’sa lot, andIcould use help.Youseemed to have a knack for this sort of thing.Wouldyou be interested in joining us for the summer?”
My mouth went dry.Istared at the journal in front of me, the phrase “be the main character” circled in red on the previous page. “Youmean, like, work for you?”
